


Arrhythmia

by acrononymous



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Birds of a feather and great size differences, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Other, Slow Burn, Soft Sten, Some angst, Sweet, a little whumpy, mentions depression, they are idiots your honor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28372965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acrononymous/pseuds/acrononymous
Summary: There was far too much chaos residing in Brosca’s tiny, muscular body. This ferocious, adorable agent of bedlam would be his undoing.Or: Sten feels things (affection) and is very confused. A romance from Sten's POV that spans the length of Origins.
Relationships: Female Brosca/Sten (Dragon Age)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 8





	1. Word Games

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to my lovely betas, Blarfkey and fairfaxleasee! <3

Chapter 1: Word Games

“Oh, Maker!” The Chantry sister exclaimed in her strange lilting way. She reminded Sten of a songbird that occasionally stabs things. She was tolerable. Not as agreeable or logical as the Warden, but tolerable all the same. Much more so than the other Warden. He sighed, mentally exasperated at the mere thought of another monologue on the many applications of cheese from the boy.

He turned to follow the Orlesian’s gaze, huffing out a laugh at the sight of the Warden covered in viscera and a fierce scowl. He saw a disembodied claw protruding from her hair and a pool of slime gathering around her feet. Giant spiders, and darkspawn were a menace. The only thing holding Fereldan together was a love of cheese and a hatred of Orlais. Hopefully he’ll have more to add to his report to the Arishok, though he highly doubts it.

“Leliana, may I borrow your soap? I’d rather smell of flowers than innards.” The Warden flashed a pleading expression she learned from Dog.

“I see your Mabari has taught you well. Please do.” The songbird handed the warden a small parcel with a smile. The Warden grinned and curtsied, prompting a chuckle from the bard, the school mistress and the assassin. To him, she looked like she was holding in flatulence. Ferelden customs are rather illogical.

“My dear Brosca, if you need any help scrubbing, I shall lend you my services. My many…. Many services.” The elf waggled his eyebrows at her, undoubtedly picturing her naked. Though, with the elf, no one is safe from being recruited to his harem. Sten might be tempted if the elf had more to hold onto. 

“I can scrub behind my ears for free, thank you. Morrigan, try not kill Alistair while I’m gone.” She gave Alistair a wink and bounded off, her mabari following at her heels.

He felt the familiar restlessness creep into his hands. He stood and left in search of firewood. He glanced at the witch on his way out of camp. She had a tome, a … grimoire in her hands. Bas-Sareebas. It is a wonder she has not caught her death in the Fereldan climate, clothed in nothing but a handkerchief, a necklace, and scathing wit. The bard was no better, cloaked in straps of leather and a prayer. At least the Warden wears sensible armor. Leather and metal, covering everything. She was a dwarf, yet she was sturdier than the others. A gust of wind would scatter the other females in camp. It might send the Elf flying back to Antiva, if he hasn’t eaten that day. The Warden, however, was shorter than the elf, and thick with muscle. Built with years of discipline, undoubtedly.

He sees the boy and the elf pining for her. He understands the appeal. Even though she lacks the height and durability of Qunari women, she is formidable, and enjoyable to converse with. Her legs and rump were especially strong, he noticed. As the months passed, he couldn’t help becoming curious. When he was alone, mind idle with meandering thoughts, he couldn’t help picturing her, covered in blood, daggers in hand, muscles taut, hair slightly mussed and a fierce snarl tearing her luscious lips… _Parshara_.

Sten felt a familiar tightness in his leathers. Distraction. That is all he needs. This is purely mental. The word game, that should work. It helped pass the time in his cage, it should suppress his urge now. _H. Hostile. Hate. Hope. Human. Hips. Her…_ He imagined what she would look like, pressed against a tree, legs curled around him and nails digging into his scalp. He imagined the arch of her back and his mouth conquering her pale Fereldan flesh. What marks would it make with a small bite? A slap? Would she bite him back? Would she claw at his back, leaving marks of her own as he got a taste of that ferocious violence she deployed in battle?

_Vashedan!_ Sten crumpled his brow in concentration. _L. Licorice. Lost. Lists. Lips. Lover..._ A grumble escaped him, deepening his scowl. This was ridiculous. He hoisted his axe over his shoulder and took out his frustration on a fallen tree.

They camp has had an abundance of firewood lately.


	2. Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Hello, feelings? Is that you? It’s me, denial. – A story by Sten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: parts of Sten’s dialogue were pulled from DAO.

Chapter 2: Mornings

They shared a log near the fire, both holding a bowl of porridge, as per their usual morning ritual. An informational discrepancy had plagued Sten for some time. His confusion grew as he witnessed her tactical prowess on the battlefield throughout the months. Today, he sought answers.

“I do not understand.”

She quirked a brow at him, demanding clarification.

“You are a woman.” 

She snorted out a laugh, as she often did when he spoke, as if she conspired with his words without him. He never minded, however, choosing instead to appreciate the dimples that appeared every time she did.

“Really?” She looked at her chest in mock surprise. “Huh.”

Sten scowled, and persisted. “You delight in stabbing things.” She gave him one of her ‘are you an idiot?’ looks, the special one she reserved for dire cases they encountered around Thedas. Then she smiled, the wicked one she deployed right before teasing someone. The one that made Alistair drop things and forced Sten to look away before he lost control of himself.

He swallowed.

“Now, if you’re confused about where to put…” Her eyes slowly meandered down his torso, lingering on his trousers, “ _ it _ , I can help you. Though most people don’t refer to it as stabbing.”

“Most people lack imagination,” Zevran chimed as he walked past them. She giggled at the elf, and Sten felt his arrhythmia act up again. This untethered, weightless stirring in his chest was a recent development and probably meant he needed to decrease his confectionary intake.

He cleared his throat and persevered. “You are a Grey Warden. So, it follows that you can’t be a woman.”

“That makes no sense, Sten.”

“So, you understand my confusion, then. Women are artisans, shopkeepers, or farmers. They don’t fight.”

“That is not a universal truth; some fight.”

“Why would women ever wish to be men?”

She laughed without mirth. “No. Some just wish to be people that fight. A person’s gender or identity is their own business and you have no right to go around throwing your unsolicited judgement upon anyone. Ever. Your mission here is to observe, so I suggest you take your head out of your ass, and  _ learn something. _ ”

Well, that’s just anatomically impossible. Another idiom, then. The common tongue seemed to make as much sense as fingers on a nug, and was increasingly  _ uncommon _ the longer he spent here. Parshara.

He deflected before his intended meaning was entirely lost, or before she shanked him in the kidney. 

“I do not know what to make of you. Perhaps this is a quality of the Grey Wardens I had not heard about. A person is born: Qunari or human or elven or dwarf. A person doesn’t choose that, the size of his hands, or whether he is clever or foolish. The color of his hair, the land he comes from. We do not simply choose, we just are.”

She hummed, rolling the words around her mouth before she was satisfied enough to release them. “But a person can choose what to do.”

“Can they? That remains to be seen.” He studied her, gauging her reaction.

“Sure they do. Today, I woke up and chose laughter to stave away the madness and existential dread. Morrigan chose not to murder Alistair, and Zevran chose to be undeniably fabulous. We ‘just are,’ surely, but we also are born with a freedom of choice, and willpower to sustain us.” She shrugged. “Though, our wills become depleted and we fight to sustain it more often than not.” She waved her hand, as if batting away errant thoughts from distracting her. “Anyway, my point is, our choice is our freedom.”

“Just as you chose to join the Grey Wardens?” he challenged.

“Just as you chose to stay in that cage,” she countered.

A smile ghosted across Sten’s scowl. He nudged her knee with his as they resumed their meal in silence.

He failed to notice Alistair watching the pair with piqued interest, or the wilted rose tucked away in his pocket.

*** 

Sten did not dream often and every time he did his hatred for magic grew. He was trapped in that illusion that plagued him from before. Infinite claws from demons of madness cloying at him, ripping and digging through his armor and carrying his sword further away from him. His rage burned him; melting his skin. He couldn’t move. He roared through the flames but all he could do was watch as Asala drifted away into darkness.

A voice tugged at him. It was familiar; warm. His eyes fluttered under their lids as his consciousness settled into his limbs. He was almost free from the claws, almost floated back to his body. The voice tugged again, pulling him away.

Sten stirred, resetting his position in the bedroll to drift away again. He froze when a small hand settled on his chest.

“Sten?”

A single violet eye peeked at his Warden.

“I can’t sleep.”

He said nothing and simply moved to make room for her under the blanket. They settled against each other and drifted away in peace.

Golden fingers of light peaked over the horizon before his eyes meandered open. They roamed towards the warmth pressed against him. His chest became untethered again as he saw her tangled in his limbs. This… feeling was so strange to him. He  _ should  _ be repulsed.  _ Anaam ensaam Qun.  _ Everything was right under the demands of the Qun. Things fit. They endure. They are legion; working cogs of a machine where everything makes  _ sense. _ Structure. Obeisance. This, he knew. It was all he knew.

That was before.

Now, uncertainty plagued him. These  _ people _ that surrounded him were raised without purpose, flitting about their lives searching for meaning, all sense of logic abandoned for excess. He did not understand. Was this freedom to not know your standing in the world? Their burden of choice was insurmountably crippling. How could they flounder through life without their purpose laid bare before them?  _ Yet… _

His Warden stirred, plucking him from his mire of doubt.

She bore the demands of leadership and the blight with sarcasm and humor, but he knew she was battling despair; probably for longer than anyone knew. He recognized the cloying sadness she wore in moments she thought no one was looking. His people had Tamassrans to speak to to aid their fight before it consumed them. 

She did not.

She was kadan, however, and he would help her keep vigilant against despair before it consumed her before the blight. He moved to stroke her back, as his Tamassran once did for him long ago.

She nestled closer to him.

That…  _ feeling _ encroached again. He had kept a strict health regimen for a few months straight, and even asked the Matronly Saarebas to check him but to no avail. Yet, here she was, and there  _ it _ was, settling inside his chest like a case of gaatlok. If provoked, it could detonate his entire foundation. That was  _ not _ going to happen. Perhaps his body was just becoming sick. 

She sighed against him. Blankets rustled until a crown of muddy curls popped out of its sleepy nest. 

“Good morning, Sten of the Beresaad.”

He hummed in response, carding his fingers through her riot of curls.

“Chatterbox as usual, I see. I also prefer quiet mornings before I get bumfucked by the day.” 

He didn’t know what that meant, but knowing her, it was probably another crass idiom that wasn’t useful to learn. Why there were so many phrases pertaining to a person’s rump in Common was a mystery to him. This language was not his favorite. He wouldn’t mind learning some Dwarven, for tactical purposes, however.

She unwound her limbs from him, stretching the creaks out of her back. Sten studied her waking form, reminded of a small apex predator rising from its den. She straightened and gifted him a new smile; a private one of relief and fondness. His chest seized, harder than it ever has, and he grimaced at its implications.

He brushed off her ‘what is it?’ look with a wave and righted himself. He reached for his meditation beads and crossed his legs. The Warden handed him the censer of incense that was beyond his reach. His lip quirked. Their wordless communication and sweets were his favorite things about Ferelden. She tucked her knees to her chest and started braiding her hair. Sten lit the incense and resumed his place in the tome of Koslun. His gentle baritone mingled with smoky rays of the morning, promising peace for the day. Little did they know that years from now, long after they’ve forgotten the details of each other’s face, these moments would endure. 


	3. Stages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: They’re blind, your honor. Blind idiots.

Chapter 3: Stages

It was, as they say here, a shitstorm of a day. One of many they’ve had in the Brecillian Forest. Sten, and most of the party, only felt two emotions as of late: hunger, and mild annoyance. In fact, on such spectacular displays of horror that are more potent their usual “days that end in Y” sort of terrible, Sten noticed a pattern develop with the Warden. He called them her stages of frustration.

He ticked off the stages silently. First was sorrow. He noted the particularly potent pout plastered on her face as she climbed out of a hole, covered in viscera and mud. She wasn’t prone to falling, due to her low center of gravity, he surmised. Then she fell, again, into the same hole. This time, she disturbed an ancient burial site and summoned an Arcane Horror. The fight, Sten noted, lifted her spirits. That is until it broke her favorite dagger beyond repair.

“It was enchanted!” she had said between sobs. “ _ Enchanted  _ with my best runes.” Her lip quivered gently before letting a “so much gold…” escape in a whimper. A distant, haunted look beheld her for a moment. The party held their collective breath, a moment of silence for a befallen comrade and their state of poverty. Some shared looks of concern with the Qunari (Alistair), some of confusion (Morrigan and Dog).

“Hey, now, Sandal loves enchantments!” Alistair gently added between her sobs. “You’ll make his day!” Alistair reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. Sten had to stifle a smile when she dodged his hand and stared at him with her full force, patented puppy eyes. Lip quivering, raised brows, watery eyes. It was the full package. Sten did not think Alistair had emotionally recovered yet.

Then came the gaatlok stage. Sten shared looks of horror with Morrigan as they fell in line behind the Warden and away from the detonation area. The boy, as ever, followed at her heels and was just delighted to be there.

Ambushes abounded in the forest. Bears, Werewolves, Demons, all attributing a unique flavor of violence for them to feast on. This was all fine. Therapeutic, even Sten noticed. Destruction was primal, a coping mechanism coded into our DNA, where cleaving into something tangible created momentary bliss to satiate the ineffectiveness and despair of being alive and lacking control of anything. So, he encouraged violence in battle, just enough to satisfy but never too much to lose yourself. One should be centered within themselves at all times.

Everything was fine, until Dog took a blood mage’s stave to the neck. A soft keen was heard across the battlefield as the canine fell. Then she detonated. The feral fury she locked away was released with a snarl. She ripped into the remaining mages with deadly precision, blood splattering in the air in ribbons of dread. She smiled through the viscera, as if the great slumbering beast within her delighted at its freedom from the abyss of pleasantries and contrite society it lived in. Sten knew such a feeling as his own skin, and he knew they were the same. Violence was primal, and necessary for them to purge the darkness lurking within them. After the last foe was slain, she emerged from her battle coma covered in the blood of her adversaries and surrounded by dismembered limbs.

“’Tis alright. The creature will live,” Morrigan said with a glowing orb radiating in her hands. A healing wisp appeared, surrounding them in haloes of warm light. Sten’s skin itched as the magic stitched the wounds close. They all huddled around the spirit and suffered in silence. Alistair and Morrigan traded snide remarks, as per usual, but the Warden was more stoic than normal. She bore a scowl that rivaled his. 

“Um, Coretta? Are you alright?” Alistair’s voice was soft, cuddly almost, as if easing into a predator's cage with an offering of appeasement. The party held another collective breath.

“Yes, of course! Why do you ask?” She said with a voice made of sugar and candy floss. It was so pleasant one almost forgot the gore crusted on her, or the grimace from seconds before. Sten barked out a laugh. She’d finally reached her last stage: deflection. 

They trekked for another hour in the forest before she approached Sten with a giddiness usually displayed by drunkards when someone else picks up the tab, or when Alistair gets ready to tuck into a new variety of Camembert cheese. He glanced down at her, frown deepening at her unbridled delight. 

“So! Tell me, Sten,” she began. She smiled at him, sharp and dangerous as one of her daggers. Sten stifled a sigh and reached deep within his reserves of self-discipline for inner calm. “In the Qun, what are family units like?”

“We don’t have them,” he answered.

He felt the others  _ ogle _ him with curiosity. None were brave enough to interrogate him as the Warden does. Except for Shale, but they were also kadan, and worthy of a decent answer from him.

“Well. How does that work?” She eyed him, genuinely curious.

Sten felt his lip quirk at her inquiry. “Surely you know how reproduction works, Warden,” he baited.

“What? You all don’t pop out of a dragon egg?  _ Maker _ , that’s a surprise,” the boy quipped.

She snickered. Sten noted the crinkle in his Warden’s nose with an odd interest - was that there before? He shook his head, brushing off the errant thought as he would a determined bee. She eyed him again with her puppy look. Sten grimaced and bent under the weight of her gaze.  _ Parshara. _

“We… bear offspring for desired traits. The duty of raising children ends at conception and birth for both parties involved,” he began. “The children are raised by Tammasrans with their peers. During their upbringing, the Tamassrans note emerging traits and assign roles in the Qun accordingly as children age.”

“The Tamassrans are like mothers? Or Aunts?” She asked. Sten collected her features as one would recipes in a book, adjusting here, substituting there. Each time he observed, he noticed new flavors to add.

“No. They are… Tamassrans. Their role varies, but that is their title. Some educate and care for the young ones.”

She hummed, plucking the new information into her collection like a magpie scholar. “Did you love yours?” She asked with a voice tinted with wistful sorrow. She arched a brow at him. Love? Sten’s mind blanked at the word. He’s heard it before but he couldn’t define it clearly which could only mean it was sentimental and impractical to learn. 

“Explain your meaning, Warden,” he asked.

“Well, do you miss them? Do you…” She trailed off, eyes sweeping the air before her as if cleaning the ink off of an invisible book. “Ah,” She glanced back at him, “For example, I remember my neighbor from Dust Town singing as he showed me how to knead dough, or how he would wink as he handed me an extra sweet at dinner. He… well, I loved him, you see. He wasn’t family, but he looked out for us.” Her eyes went far away again before blinking back to Sten. “So, Tamassrans are kinda like that, then?”

He hummed, mulling around the word’s definition, pulling it here, testing it there for new insight. A memory awoke in Sten, a great lumbering giant stirring something in his chest. Warm, firm hands braiding his hair, and softly singing. The briny air of Seheron blanketing him with scents of the bakery next door and incense from the priest’s morning meditations. His tiny hand reaching up to the fine web of lines at the corner of his Tama’s eyes, trying to smooth them. The pad of her thumb smoothing his frown. “Such a serious face in one so young,” she said, letting him explore her for similarities as children often did.

He remembered his hands feeling her horns, then searching for his own. “When will mine come, Tama? Will they be like yours?”

Tama’s eyes creased with warmth. “Time will tell. Don’t dwell on things you cannot change, little one,” she said with a voice of caramel. He remembered her gentle strength as she soothed his back and hugged him. Such was her way. A pang in his chest brought him to the present. He blinked the memory away, eyes searching for his Warden. “Yes,” he breathed. She hummed in response, knowing not to push him further in the company of others. He nodded at her, a silent understanding settling around them.

Her eyes flitted to something in the distance. 

She gasped and pranced to an empty crate on the side of the road. “Honestly, people leaving gold just lying around, in the wilderness,” she sighed dreamily and glanced back at Sten. “Fereldans, am I right?” She shrugged and flashed a crooked smile. He returned it, despite himself.  _ Fereldans _ , Sten thought and shook his head. He didn’t know why he couldn’t stop smiling.

***

What Sten learned that day was her truly final stage: brooding.

The Warden was perched on a low tree branch in her usual meditative pose: legs bouncing under her and hands polishing her daggers. Though, something was off about her. Sten glanced at the bard. It seemed she noticed as well.

“Cory? Everything alright? Camp seems wrong without your laughter,” the bard asked.

The Warden flicked a grin towards her; a sweet deflection.

“Ah, come now, that isn’t true. Camp would be wrong without a charcuterie of entrails and demonic ichor to pick from our armor after a long day at work. Saving Fereldan is  _ dirty _ business. Duncan really should have mentioned that in his recruitment pitch.” She hopped to her feet. “I should get our water sorted before dinner, anyway,” she said to no one in particular and turned towards the Brecillian forest.

“I will accompany you.” The words tumbled out of him with an urgency he did not intend. ‘As you wish,’ she said with a glance.

They walked towards the river where they met WitherFang. The ambient noises of wildlife serenaded them for a while and for a moment the balmy air reminded him of the jungles of Seheron. There was a savage beauty to this country he had not anticipated. The silence was pleasant between them. They didn’t push each other, choosing instead to retreat into themselves in the company of another. They were similar in that way, as was Morrigan. They needed a respite into their mind to heal from the onslaughts of others invading their space. After a few minutes, he noticed her countenance relax enough to start humming to herself. It was a familiar song, probably from the neighbor she loved, but he never asked. 

“You were mulling,” he prodded when her song stopped.

She peeked at him. “Probably,” she said through a smirk.

“About… the austerity of the Mabari breed, and their superior intellect to some of our companions. It is hardly shocking.”

She snorted, nose crinkled with amusement. “No, though it is true. Oghren would start frothing at the mouth if he counted above 10. Pumpkin can make it to at least 30, probably.”

He waited, knowing that she held her confessions for him, or Dog in her quiet moments. He simply had to wait and listen if she needed it. They stopped at the river and began their task of collecting water.

Sten glanced at her. A curl had escaped from the bundle at the nape of her neck, falling into her eyes. She blew at it with annoyance, but kept her hands occupied with their task. His hand reached toward it on their own accord, tucking it behind her ear, and resuming his work. She gave him an odd look but remained silent. He scowled at himself, chastising his unruly limbs. 

She sighed, a long-suffering release of the day’s frustrations, and looked at him. “I just don’t see why we have to bow and scrape to these people for their aid. There isn’t time for this! Can’t people see the threat glaring them in the face? I just…” she bit the inside of her cheek before continuing. “I just wish their damned sky rained common sense instead of its usual cold, wet nonsense,” she pouted. 

Sten barked out another laugh. “That would make our quest easier. Nonsense in Thedas is a universal truth, it seems.”

She giggle-snorted at him and he smirked at her. She gave him that private, sugar glazed smile from the tent and bumped into him playfully. “Hey, Sten?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said with a caramel voice and Sten almost dropped his buckets of water. She devolved into another cacophony of giggles and his chest seized. This was just typical. His organs were failing, and she was laughing. He scowled at her, but melted at the sticky-warm look on her face.  _ Parshara _ .

“I…” he cleared his throat, “I’m glad you found me, Warden”

They seemed to flit around each other, an invisible tether of understanding woven between them. Their eyes held each other for a moment longer than usual before they broke off in search of something less embarrassing to focus on. 

They walked back to camp, both silently trapped inside their minds and ladened with confusion. They couldn’t look at each other for the rest of the evening.


	4. Tensions

Chapter 4: Tensions

“You killed him. _You_ did that. How could you? He was just a child!” Alistair pointed his finger at her, his face burning with rage.

“Connor endangered an entire town! What would you have me do?” The Warden flung her hands in the air in frustration, rage threatening to consume her.

“I don’t know! Maybe we could have found something in the fade? Asked the mages for help!” Tears threatened to spill over Alistair’s righteous indignation, and his Warden softened when she noticed. She wasn’t fond of emotions be it fluffy ones or the wet kind that spilled over under duress, and especially not from others.

“At what cost? How many more should die for a noble’s son? It was unfortunate, but I stand by my choice. It was the most logical course of action,” she decreed.

“He was the Arl’s only son! His legacy!”

“Sod legacy! You humans, and dwarves… and!” Her eyes pinched closed as she bit the inside of her cheek, trying to contain the tempestuous ire bubbling in her. "And if the boy were from the streets? If he were a nameless dwarf, Qunari, or elf? Would you be so keen to save the child then?" She inquired with a voice of frost etching over the tension at camp. She arched a brow at the sputtering boy before deflating, breathing out the weariness that plagued her and unable to continue debating. “Arguing about the past is ineffectual. People need to start their own path,” she said as if to herself. “I…” she tented her brows, “ I did not enjoy it, Alistair,” she breathed.

“I… yes, I know,” he softly lamented, “ Blast and damnation! I know that. I shouldn’t have accused you like this. Maker, I am such an ass! Cory…. I should know how hard it is for you to make such decisions. I gave you all of this responsibility. I… I am sorry.” The boy’s tears smeared the leftover demonic ichor and blood, creating rivers of dread upon his face. He had never looked so young and lost.

“Yes! Well!” She gestured vaguely around her. “You did, and everyone wants something and can’t _figure it out!_ I’m not a fucking saint from your Chantry! I…” she paused for a breath, “I am doing the best I can, Alistair. Please believe me. I feel like I’m… like I’m piecing this all together alone, sometimes,” she said, her voice smaller than she could ever stand.

The camp held their collective breath.

Alistair threw down his weapons and crushed her to him. He held her, wishing to hold it all together, wishing this one embrace can undo time before he opened his foolish mouth. He stroked her tattooed cheek with a gauntleted thumb and crooned, “You are never alone. You have me. I am and shall always be here for you. Whatever you need, my lady.” His eyes held hers, fierce and solemn as his promise.

“Yes. Well, thank you,” she said, not knowing where to look. Even on his knees, she was still shorter than him. The boy really was a tower of raw emotion in armor. He meant well, however. It was a shame he was such a fool. He still had hope to be a decent fighter in time, however, and wasn’t entirely hopeless. 

He held her for a moment too long. “Well, I have to say, that was the knightliest thing I have seen you do. Ever. Bravo!” She deflected, flashing a crooked grin and stepping away from his exposed feelings before they flayed her. “You are not alone, either. I am here for you, always,” she whispered, punching him in the shoulder.

“ ‘Tis high praise from the Warden. She has seen you flailing about in your small clothes.” Morrigan smirked at him.

“Oh, Morrigan, that was one time, and it was a nightmare. How else could I protect myself from giant spiders?” His face flushed magenta.

“You really shouldn’t eat anything before bed, Alistair,” she teased.

“Indeed. Do it for the good of the camp. Haven’t you ever wondered why we always place you downwind?” The witch said.

“Oh, haha. Have your laughs. And here I was, thinking we had a sincere moment.” Alistair slumped his shoulders.

She grazed him with her fist again, “We did, you dolt. That shade of pink is just one of my favorite colors,” her smile dazzled the boy until his face looked like it was roasting on a fire.

“Oh, hum, ok. Chit chat is over, I’ll be over here until the blushing goes away.” Alistair retreated, armor clink-clanking with each step.

She sighed. “You’d think a man walking around with a metal bucket on his head wouldn’t be so _tender_ ,” she huffed and plopped down next to the Sten to begin sorting through some found journals and letters. 

Morrigan lingered, shuffling her feet, and glancing that the others were out of earshot. Knowing the witch, Sten thought she was bound to say something sentimental. Nothing made the witch more nervous than feelings.

“ ‘Tis false what you said, Warden.” She lowered her voice and stepped closer. “ I... I’m here for you also,” Morrigan whispered with a smile. It was soft, shy even, and vanished as soon as it appeared like one of her trapping spells.

The Warden snorted. “I know, Morrigan. Thank you for saying it, though. You’re one of my closest friends.”

“I… hmm. Well,” the witch said before retreating to her corner of camp. Sten shared a smirk with his Warden, both amused at her rare display of affection, and returned to their books.

Sten looked up every so often from his reading to check on her. He was glad the business with the fool ended. Sten was close to grabbing his axe and cleaving him in two if he continued berating the Warden. It was the right decision. The others just lacked the pragmatism to see it. Such insolence from the boy. Were they in a Beresaad, that was grounds for an execution. How dare the boy question her? How dare he suggest venturing into the fade? Child or not, an infection must be culled in its entirety. Sten applauded the Warden for her quickness of wit and wisdom in Redcliff Castle. He remembered the swell of pride he felt, once again, as he watched her speak to the child’s mother. She was calm and resolute. Sten smirked when the Warden knocked the mother out with the hilt of her dagger. He could not have done it better. She was by far the most agreeable person in Ferelden he has ever met.

He checked on her again. She chewed the bottom of her lip, as was her habit when she was stressed. Her lips were plump, and very well proportioned, Sten noticed. She bit the corner of her mouth, dragging her teeth across her bottom lip and staining them red. An image of her lips around the bell of his cock flashed into his mind. He pictured her perfect little lips overflowing as he unloaded into them, tongue lapping the corner of her mouth, savoring it before bringing her lips to his and forcing him to taste. 

He coughed violently. She looked at him as if he was as insane as he felt. He panicked and stood up abruptly. “Goodnight,” he barked and marched to his tent to die in peace.

What Sten didn’t realize was that she was also distracted by her thoughts. She’d read the same sentence a dozen times, tracing the words with her fingers for clarity, but all she could envision was those same fingers dragging down the planes of his back and the lines they’d leave behind.

She had not turned a page in quite some time.

Eventually she retreated to her own tent for some relief, biting her lips to soften the sounds of her release and wishing someone else’s fingers were pulling her closer to the edge. 

***

The molten magma and the ogling from the dwarves of Orzammar cast a balmy haze of malcontent over Sten. He had banged his head on too many doorways and almost crashed into a cart of wares. The dwarven merchant was so addled with lyrium he did not seem to notice. He knew his Warden was well aware of his bumbling, however, and it only darkened his mood further. She passed concerned looks towards him with increased frequency as they continued their errands for some would-be dwarven king. His scowl only deepened. At one point she chewed her lip and pleaded at him with her damnable doe eyes. “Sorry, this is almost over,” she said with a glance. He softened his expression at her in response and dipped his chin. He was quite fond of their wordless communication.

His other companions, however, enjoyed chattering. Especially the boy. He practically wagged his tail as he followed the Warden, throwing words at her, at dwarves passing by. He would chat with the damned stone if he knew it would talk back. His mood soured further as he overheard the Saarebas Matron comment on Alistair’s fascination with the Warden’s ‘sway of her hips.’ An incomprehensible surge of jealousy began churned within him, mirroring the magma below.

The boy sputtered something in response and lagged closer to Sten. The miasma of ire surrounding Sten threatened to poison the boy, but he didn’t seem to notice. He almost growled as he noticed the boy was continuing to stare at his Warden’s hips.

“Watch yourself, boy. You will burn a hole in the Warden’s backside with your eyes.” Sten flexed his bicep and rolled his shoulders and pierced him with a glare.

Alistair gulped, but stood his ground. “Shall I leave that to you then, Qunari?” 

Sten growled in response. His shoulder lurched on their own accord before Sten regained control. Pushing the boy off the bridge, into the magma, would not be wise.

“What is it with you? The witch has offered herself freely for you to…” Alistair gestured in the air vaguely. “You _know._ Coretta has enough on her plate without adding your _steely gaze_ on top of it.” Alistair whistled. “If looks could kill, my friend... Between you and the witch, I’d be burnt alive.”

If only, Sten thought.

The boy knotted his brow and continued his insolence. “So, what is it, then? Do you have feelings for her? For Coretta? Or are you simply curious about…” he gestured vaguely, “you know… _things._ What it would be like with her…”

Sten snarled at him and lurched. 

“BOYS!” the Warden shouted at them as she beat them with her brow. Both of them grumbled and looked away from each other as they prepared themselves for the grousing of their lives.

She stabbed them both with her eyes before settling on Sten, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You! You’ve been in a foul mood all day, and I’ve tried to be accommodating. I gave you the _look_. I know how you feel, this place is not my favorite either, but you don’t see me threatening to shove everyone I see into the magma.”

Sten sputtered and scoffed at her. How did she know what he was planning?

She jabbed a finger towards Alistair. “And you! You’ve been glowering at Sten at every chance you get for months now! Morrigan, I understand. But what has Sten done to you? Why can’t you both just _get along?_ ”

Both of the men paled at her. Alistair started sweating. Sten glanced at the boy grudgingly and relented for her sake.

She let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Shake. Or you both have to wear the tunic.”

Both men gaped at her.

“No,” Sten growled.

Wynne attempted to smother her laugh behind her hand.

The Warden sighed. “You both know the rules. Wear the ‘get along’ tunic until you simmer down.”

“I wouldn’t even be able to fit after _Sten_ wore it, anyway. Flaming Qunari giant.” Alistair grumbled.

“Alistair!” She pinched the bridge of her nose again, before letting out a long-suffering sigh and reaching into her pack.

“No!” Sten put his hands up in surrender and muttered in Qunlat under his breath, swatting the boy on the chest and fixed him with a withering stare. He put his hand out towards Alistair.

“I’m sorry for growling at you,” Sten muttered.

“And?” The warden tacked on.

“And!” Sten muttered in Qunlat once more. “And, for conspiring to throw you into the magma,” Sten sighed.

Alistair clutched his invisible pearls.

“Alright,” she decreed, raising a brow in Alistair’s direction. He sighed. This was highly unnecessary. 

“I’m sorry, Sten, for… calling you a flaming qunari giant. And… for… being grumpy?” He threw a sullen look at the Warden. After her nod of approval, he sighed with relief and shook Sten’s hand.

She beamed at them both to thank them. “One more thing, and we’ll head back to camp.” She turned on her heel and marched forward. Both men glared momentarily at each other before resuming their tasks in this damnable city. 

They planned to go to some ‘Deep Roads’ next. He hoped that was less taxing than this city has been.


	5. Depths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sten wants to die and is mercilessly teased.

Chapter 5: Boiling

Sten was mistaken. 

These roads were terrible and should be closed forever. It was highly illogical to keep these tunnels of nightmares open between their underground city fortresses. A weeping, tactical sore upon Orzammar, and easily exploited should anyone (the Arishok) feel a need to do so. If they were as united as the Qun, their forces would be formidable. Their pride and stubbornness incapacitated the Dwarves, however, and therefore lacked any hope of rivaling Seheron. This weakness could be circumvented easily if they opened themselves to the surface and prepared a united front against quelling the darkspawn from the Deep Roads.

That required common sense, however, and was therefore never going to happen.

Sten, Shale, Wynne, and Brosca continued their parade of gore through the putrid underbelly of stone. Time held no meaning here, and soon it was as if he were living a nightmare filled with corpses and creatures and deep mushrooms. Or perhaps they all inhaled too much lyrium dust, and this was all a dream; a terrible, horrible illusion and he’ll wake up above ground and in his tent. Just as that thought floated from him in his delirium, dissonant whispers surrounded them. Brosca pointed to its source and vanished in a plume of smoke as Sten cracked his neck and charged at the Darkspawn horde, drawing their ire away from the others and letting muscle memory take over. Sour blood and steel blurred time until they breathed again in a grave of limbs and dank horror.

Sten searched the shadows for his Warden and froze as he found her.

Brosca was too much. Her muscles were glistening with spilled wrath, and her hair mussed as if he had raked his fingers through it for purchase as she rode him. It was the look in her eye that made Sten’s trousers tight: that unleashed fury was still visible, drawing him closer with its promise of viciousness. It was a very Qunari thing to possess, and something he did not think he’d admire so far from home. She blinked. Battle-stricken eyes focusing on him, and _licked her lips_ , staining them a delicious red. In that moment of renewed delirium, he wanted nothing more than to crush her under his weight and claim her once and for all. He wanted her lips to conquer his; wanted to taste the sounds she’d make as she came undone.

Clearly, Sten thought, he was going insane and masked his delusions with another coughing fit as he turned away to adjust himself.

“Do… do you have allergies, Sten?” Wynne gently prodded. “You’ve been having an awful lot of coughing fits lately. Perhaps I have some herbs in my pack…” Wynne’s voice faded away in maternal worry.

“No!” He cleared his throat, rounding out the jagged pieces of his voice, “I am fine. Everything’s fine, thank you,” he assured in a perfectly reasonable, entirely stable voice and resumed his place in the procession behind his Warden. He gave her a nod, answering her inquiring expression as if nothing were remiss, as any _sane_ individual would do, and everything was fine until Shale pierced the awkwardness with her tactfulness.

“Oh, for Stone’s sake! Just copulate, already,” Shale deadpanned to the stunned trio. The Golem narrowed its eyes at Sten, and he was sure Shale would roll them out of her head if she physically could. “The small, squishy one and the Qunari have been making eyes at each other for weeks now. Since the drama with the werewolves in that damned forest,” Shale scowled and spat out, “with the _birds_.”

Silence stretched around them, and Sten wanted nothing more than to club himself over the head and end his suffering. Perhaps an Ogre would be so kind to him in the next few minutes.

Then, suddenly, Brosca’s amused snort echoed in the cavern, shattering the silence in the most endearing way. She shrugged at the trio ogling her in that cavalier way of hers and began disrobing.

Wynne took a scandalized breath. Shale squawked in amusement, and Sten was paralyzed. His heart palpitations were out of control and he was _convinced_ this was the end.

“I’ll need you two,” Brosca nodded to Wynne and Shale, “to give us about twenty minutes and we’ll rejoin you.” She bit her lip, eyes roving across Sten’s body, and smiled; mischief dancing across her lips. “No, make it an hour,” Brosca decreed as she loosened the straps on her armor.

Sten grimaced. There was far too much chaos residing in Brosca’s tiny, muscular body. Was she teasing, or was this a fever dream? Even worse, was she serious? No, their first time together could not be here in the Cave of Madness and Horrors. Sten gulped; limbs heavy, throat inexplicably dry. This ferocious, adorable agent of bedlam would be his undoing. His stomach somersaulted as she took a step closer.

Then, Wynne (The glorious gatekeeper of sense) stepped between them and placed her hand on Brosca’s shoulder. She squeezed it, no doubt trying to impart some pragmatism through her touch, Sten surmised. “Coretta, my dear, have some pity on poor Sten,” Wynne said, giving him an apologetic smile. “He’s about to collapse from stress.”

“The little squish is amusing. If only others would listen to my advice so quickly,” Shale grumbled. Brosca snickered at the remark before smiling towards him with that sugary expression of hers that did terrible things to his heart. He clutched his chest automatically and scowled into the void as he usually did when words eluded him.

“Aw, don’t pout, Sten. I’m just teasing,” Brosca said with her puppy eyes, “Do you forgive me?”

A rumble of discontent echoed in Sten’s chest. He most certainly did not pout. Brosca’s audacity astounded him at times, but her puppy eyes were too powerful. “Mmhm,” he hummed as he looked away.

“But you have been rubbing your chest for a few weeks now. Are you sure you’re alright?” Brosca asked.

“He is getting old,” Wynne tacked on. “Our bodies become traitors as we age, don’t they, Sten?” She crooned with mischief dancing in the creases around her eyes. Sten harrumphed, choosing not to dignify her false accusation with words, and marched forward through the tunnels. Laughter trickled behind him and he smiled. He felt content, despite himself and the blighted shadows surrounding them. He enjoyed his eclectic Antaam; mages included. It only took him a year; a record for him, really.

Things would change when he returned to Par Vollen, but that was a concern for another time; preferably above ground, far away from these putrefied tunnels. _Parshara._ Sten hated the Deep Roads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to cartadwarfwithaheartofgold for beta'ing this chapter!


End file.
